


Everything goes (wow)

by midmorning_bomb



Series: Aranea & Babewolf [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creature Stiles Stilinski, Eichen | Echo House, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:48:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27851142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midmorning_bomb/pseuds/midmorning_bomb
Summary: It was supposed to go like this:1. Peter summons demon to the circle.2. Demon remains in said circle until Peter outlines their contract.3. Demon agrees to elegantly crafted contract, becoming loyally bound to Peter and Peter alone.Instead, the creature steps casually out of the circle, tosses its things onto the leather sofa, and starts immediately meddling in Peter’s immaculate space, touching all of Peter’s very expensive things.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Aranea & Babewolf [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2183079
Comments: 179
Kudos: 1255





	1. Sucker

The spell is simple.

He already has half the ingredients on hand, and the rest are easily liberated from their local part-time druid, full-time bore. Peter is a little concerned about the vagaries in the ritual in the tattered, faded tome, but he’s running low on options.

He regrets daily biting the whelp, but he was half crazy and McCall was out in the preserve alone and his only option. He thinks he’d have been better off feral than turning that idiot, but what’s done is done. Peter has sincerely tried, post resurrection, to fly under the radar. He had enough of his own interests to occupy his time while his nephew ran around in circles with a bunch of narcissistic teenagers.

And, _sure_ , some of his interests may have included a little murder. Some light sprinklings of mayhem. But he was always helpful-ish when Derek came scowling for help on behalf of his questionably true alpha. Before his nephew left, again, anyway. Not that any of them listened to Peter’s advice when it came to dealing with threats. Oh no, let’s have a gentle conversation with the wechuge, maybe we can reach the empty husk underneath with moralistic platitudes and a hug.

Peter stops grinding wormwood when he realizes he’s been talking out loud. To himself.

He really needs to get out of this hellhole. Ideally not in a body bag, or a prolonged stay at Eichen. The pack thinks they’re being subtle, with the sidelong glances, the conversations that stop when Peter approaches the door to loft. As though he can’t smell the pennyroyal and licorice root sedatives in the banshee’s purse and the small pouch in the Argent girl’s boot. Maybe the lack of subtlety is the point. Peter is tired of waiting for them to make a move.

Hence the spell. A demon bound to him, loyal to him. He might be growing increasingly twitchy, on the edge of becoming an omega, but he’s been without a pack before (he’s been alone before). He’ll have a creature tied to him, better than any anchor.

He traces the circle and runes in chalk and oil on kraft paper he’s laid out on the floor. He may be desperate, but he’s not about to mark up his mahogany hardwood.

When he’s about halfway through the incantation, his hand jerks instinctively, feeling something skitter across his skin. There’s nothing there, though, just the chalk and low-flickering battery tealights on the floor.

And then the first spider drops down in front of him.

He tilts his head as he looks at it. He remembers Cora, nine years old and wild and obsessed with spiders. Which is how he knows the pond water spider meandering around the edge of his summoning circle shouldn’t be here. Eastern Europe? Yes. His condo living room in California? Definitely no.

He doesn’t have that much time to worry about the pond water spider though, because three malmignattes follow. He swallows hard, but doesn’t leave the circle, as they’re joined by crevice weavers crawling up through the lines of chalk. He’s tempted when the loxosceles begin to emerge from the oil, not eager to see the impact of necrosis on a werewolf.

(Although it is an interesting prospect. He considers unleashing a few at the next pack meeting.)

His breath is burning in his throat by the time the spiders start crawling onto and into each other, forming a mass before him. It sways forward and back, writhing darkly into itself. The scent of wormwood and mugwort grow almost oppressive, before the pressure in the air breaks and it fades to a confusing but pleasant blend of peppermint and bergamot.

Two eyes become apparent among the creeping throng, red so very deep it matches the mahogany on the floor. It takes everything Peter has to hold in the flinch when they blink.

With one last pulse of movement, the crawling things are gone and all that’s left standing in front of him is a pale and achingly beautiful young man, with dark hair messy and loose around his shoulders, and moles dotting his face. He has an inked spiderweb trailing up the side of his neck and he’s... holding a yarn bag. And a backpack.

“What the fuck.”

It was supposed to go like this:

  1. Peter summons demon to the circle.
  2. Demon remains in said circle until Peter outlines their contract.
  3. Demon agrees to elegantly crafted contract, becoming loyally bound to Peter and Peter alone.



Instead, the creature steps casually out of the circle, tosses its things on the leather sofa, and starts immediately meddling in Peter’s immaculate space, touching all of Peter’s very expensive things.

“Woah, nice digs.”

The demon (??) has made his way into the kitchen, rifling through cupboards and taking out anything with sugar in it. By the time Peter’s got his wits back, the thing is sitting on his kitchen island, eating his artisanal chocolate shortbread, crumbs scattering down across its torn jeans and scuffed red chucks.

Peter does his best to appear the predator here as he approaches, but part of him is honestly wondering if he messed up the ritual and is dead again or having a stroke.

He arches a brow, “If you’re finished scavenging through my cupboards, I have a contract prepared.”

The demon (????) scrunches up his nose, which is definitely not adorable or endearing.

“Wait, what did you think you were summoning exactly? Demon? Genie? Because let me tell you, I’d be _happy_ to help you rub out a wish or two.”

He waggles his eyebrows at Peter and smirks, laughing at his own line, and shakes out the shortbread box, getting cookie fragments absolutely everywhere before doing a fist pump at finding half a shortbread left.

Peter can’t help gaping. Why is this his life?

“Yes. I summoned a demon. To form a contract. So if you’re not it, you can just—” he waves his hand vaguely toward the front door.

“Dude! No! Look, wait, what’s your name?”

Peter eyes him warily, has he summoned some kind fey?

The man rolls his eyes, “Oh my god, I’m just asking. It’s weird referring to you as ‘beefy wolf’ in my head. I’m Stiles.” He wiggles his fingers in a wave.

“It’s a... pleasure to meet you, Stiles, my name is Peter.”

Because Peter’s nothing if not versatile, and while a bound demon would be ideal, whatever is before him must certainly still have its uses.

“Rad. So where am I staying? I don’t mind sharing a bed, don’t get me wrong,” he leers up and down Peter’s body, lingering on his thighs, “uh... Yeah, definitely don’t mind sharing. But like, I only brought some of my yarn and I’m gonna need somewhere for my collection, so.”

Peter blinks. “Uhm.”

“Wow. Okay, hi? You summoned **me** , man, I’m not crashing on the couch.”

Peter watches him flail huffily still feeling a little bewildered, but shakes it off.

“Of course not, sweetheart.” He files away the creeping blush at the pet name for later. “Why don’t I get you something more substantial to eat and we can discuss our arrangement.”

Stiles grin is blinding. “Awesome! Something hot and sweet. Do you have hot chocolate? With the marshmallows.”

Two hours, and a slightly disgusting consumption of French toast, later, Peter knows a lot more about Stiles. It turns out homemade breakfast foods are the way to the aranea’s heart. Because Stiles is a werespider.

More than other weres, the aranea hold dominion over arachnids, while also being composed of them _and_ having a humanoid form. Stiles doesn’t seem to realize how impressive he is, casually blowing Peter’s mind while shovelling toast covered in syrup into his mouth.

Once Peter has cleared the plates and returned with hot chocolate, he finds Stiles at work, casting on stitches.

“So why would you try to summon a demon? I thought wolves had uh... not clusters. What do you call wolf clusters?”

“Packs, we’re supposed to have packs.” Peter’s jaw clenches. “What’s left of mine is scattered. That’s part of why I called on you.”

“You want me to be your pack?” There’s that blinding smile again. Peter didn’t hear any blip in Stiles’ rapid heartbeat, so apparently, for some reason, this aranea genuinely wants to be his.

Peter’s ego is extremely healthy, but he honestly can’t remember the last time someone _wanted_ him to be pack.

“We should probably get to know each other better first, but yes, I do want that.”

Stiles does a weird, wiggling bounce of a dance where he sits on the other end of the sofa, and sets aside his knitting needles.

“Totally. Can we go to bed now? You look _super_ warm. Like I bet you generate mega body heat.”

He squirms over to Peter and sighs happily while clinging onto him like a limpet. Or, Peter thinks, like a spider clasping its prey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sucker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHpv85lzSfY).
> 
> Well, I hope you like spiders because I like spiders and research so.


	2. Peach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Peter is 97% sure Stiles is _not_ going to burrow in and use him like a husk.)

Peter wakes to a low, deep moan. Stiles is pressed into his side, hips rolling achingly slow, breath coming in little pants against Peter’s neck.

He’s stunning in the hazy early morning light. Dark lashes against pale skin, brow a little furrowed as he strains forward and gasps awake. He rouses with a sleepy smile, and blinks open those deep garnet-brown eyes. One night with the aranea’s lithe form in his bed is enough to test Peter’s limited restraint. Stiles fell asleep almost immediately the night before, murmuring joyful odes to Peter’s (literal) hotness, curling up close to him.

Now Peter is ready to give in, but as he leans ahead for a kiss, he notices a faint, rustling movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Ah, darling...?”

Stiles huffs at Peter, causing the yellow sac spiders stalking gingerly across the edge of his hairline to tumble onto the pillow below.

“Please. Like you don’t get a little sharp and pointy when you’re ready to rumble.”

Huh. He’s not wrong. Peter does a little mental shrug, going back in to make a move, but Stiles has already shifted gears.

“Oh! Do you know how to make pancakes? I want some with peaches and chocolate chips. I bet you can tell a lot about a potential pack member from how he makes you pancakes.”

He rolls out of the bed and starts shuffling through his duffle bag, pulling out layers and layers of clothes. Peter sighs at the ceiling, watching the delicious spiderweb tattoo get covered up while Stiles pulls a sweater over his t-shirt and henley.

After sliding a caffè mocha over, Peter gets to work on slicing the peaches. He has a lot of questions, but one keeps sliding up to the top of the list:

“You’d mentioned aranea clusters last evening. But it doesn’t sound like you’re currently a part of one...?”

Peter would claim he doesn’t mean to pry, but it would be such an obvious lie, he doesn’t bother.

Stiles hums around his mocha. “Oh, my cluster was small. Just my mom and dad. After she... she’s gone, and he was human and they don’t live all that long. How long do wolves live, usually?”

Peter blinks and stops whisking the pancake batter. “Ah, we have... human lifespans.”

Stiles waves one hand while the one holding his mug flails dangerously. “No worries, we can fix that.”

The faint scent of peppermint that follows Stiles deepens as he taps the dark granite countertop, watching Peter work with an intensity in his gaze that the wolf can’t quite place.

His mind is racing with the bombs Stiles keeps carelessly dropping. He wonders how long the man has been on his own, but doesn’t really want to get into a comparison of family tragedy.

While the pancakes are sizzling away, Stiles asks to see the summoning spell Peter had attempted. He wiggles his fingers and laughs while declaring he “dabbles a little” in magic. There’s a joke there Peter is missing, but he shares the old tome and points to the ritual nonetheless.

Stiles’ smile grows and grows while he reads, mischievous eyes flicking up to Peter’s several times. His tongue darts out and he bites his lower lip.

“Dude. Who gave you this?”

Peter bristles.

“No one _gave_ it to me, it’s from the collection I’ve amassed over _years_ of—why are you laughing.”

Completely giving up on holding it in, shoulders shaking, Stiles slides the book back over, pointing to one of the lines Peter had found especially vague and had the most difficulty translating.

“That isn’t for summoning demons, tinderwolf, that’s a magical personal ad for friend and/or,” the waggling eyebrows are back, “companion.”

Peter grits his teeth a little. Contrary to popular belief, he does have friends. Friend. Jordan comes over every now and then to watch baseball. They’ve gone out on at least two separate occasions to watch a game at a bar. If that’s not friendship, then Peter doesn’t know what... anyway. Back to the matter at hand.

“Well, darling. We know why I cast the summoning, even if I did get the translation _slightly_ incorrect. Why did you answer the call?”

He feels a little vindicated and a lot pleased, seeing Stiles blush down at his mug. Stiles shrugs and bites his lip again.

“Curiosity, mainly. And maybe I was a little lonely, too.”

Apparently that’s enough feelings talk, because Stiles takes the opportunity to slide an unfortunate number of pancakes onto a plate, drowning them in whipped cream.

After breakfast, an alternately fascinating and horrifying experience (Peter had initially thought the spiders were some kind of psychic symbiotes to Stiles, but in defiance of all natural sense and order, they _are_ him, just like bones or blood or skin. Just like your mouth and teeth and tongue. So while Stiles devours pancakes in the way a human might, he also consumes them via the three velvet spiders weaving along the edge of the plate. Peter is both smitten and still concerned this is all a fever dream.), they settle back into the living room with Stiles knitting and Peter telling him more about how packs should be.

The days pass easily with Stiles. Radio silence from the pack, which isn’t uncommon, but is less worrying with an ally by his side. It’s a series of constant, unsettling surprises, every time Stiles just... wants to be with Peter. He dwells on it at night, as Stiles clings to him and wolf spiders sway rhythmically on the bedroom curtains. He tries to find Stiles’ angle in all this. Everyone wants a payoff, some advantage. There must be something more than breakfast goods and a linen-turned-yarn closet and the higher levels of thermal energy produced by werewolf metabolism.

It’s too easy to fall in. If they keep going at this rate, Stiles could sink his cute little fangs into Peter’s neck, tear out his throat, and Peter would _let him_.

He finds out more about his new roommate: Stiles hates lizards, loves alpacas and baseball. He’s a fount of knowledge, everyday subjects to mythological lore so rare it makes Peter covet. Except when he’s not, and his eyes light up as Peter explains pack dynamics or homemade pasta or insider trading.

Peter gives Stiles free run of the spare bedroom for his “collection,” which turns out to be any and every shiny thing that has caught Stiles’ eye over the past half-century. The aranea is a magpie.

Their fledgling relationship stays fairly platonic until Peter spies a Tiffany silver spider cuff during a procurement job and picks it up on a whim. He presents it to Stiles when he gets home, and as soon as the takeout from the northern Italian place is set down in the kitchen, Stiles drags him to the sofa and straddles him.

The kisses are an eager mess of enthusiasm, while Stiles babbles about the bracelet being _very shiny_ and _very perfect_ , just like Peter is very shiny and perfect. It tips Peter’s control right over the edge, being so wanted by someone so beautiful, and when he comes back to his senses, he’s panting over Stiles, utterly sated. Stiles sucks gently along the edge of Peter’s jaw, letting out little post-orgasmic shudders, skin trembling as he struggles to hold onto his form.

Peter smirks as he traces the cuff on Stiles’ wrist, “I take it you enjoyed the gift.”

Stiles sighs blissfully and pulls him in close.

“You’re even warmer after you come.”

Stiles and Jordan bond over the 1986 World Series. They’re both Mets fans, and Stiles was at Game 6 in person. Peter would be concerned (never jealous, Peter doesn’t do jealous, really), but Stiles bragged about both his silver cuff and sex life extensively before they got into baseball.

The introduction to Malia also goes disturbingly well. It turns out, like 9-year-old Cora, Malia _also_ loves spiders. Peter isn’t sure how to categorize what he feels when he sees Malia light up with wonder as Stiles transforms back into the writing mass that rose up from Peter’s summoning circle. He feels a surge of protectiveness long-buried. Long burnt out of him, dried up and starved. He nearly chokes it on it, because if he has this, then he can lose it again.

Later, when they’re laying in bed, sweat cooling and bodies shaking, Stiles turns the smuggest grin in Peter’s direction.

“Now I have you and _two_ friends. Our cluster-pack is going to be awesome.”

Meeting the rest of the pack is an inevitability. Peter has been torn between avoiding them because he has much better things to do with his time and his standard sick curiosity at what kind of disaster it will be. Stiles’ relentless loyalty lights a fire inside Peter, he supposes like calls to like.

They show up fashionably late to the Mandatory Pack Meeting™, Peter in what Stiles cheerfully declared the sluttiest v-neck he’s ever seen, and Stiles glued to Peter’s side like he’s about to burrow in and take residence.

(Peter is 97% sure Stiles is _not_ going to burrow in and use him like a husk.)

Malia grunts a greeting from the sofa she’s saved for them. From the wary and resentful looks from the other pack members, this likely involved claws or at least some aggressive growls. Jordan had texted earlier that he wouldn’t be making the meeting, it turns out ongoing employment also has mandatory attendance. Who knew? Certainly not this pack of self-absorbed twenty-somethings.

Lydia barely looks up from her phone, voice deceptively sweet, “Isn’t he a little young for you, Peter?”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, looking at Peter, who smirks while Malia rolls her eyes.

“I’m hungry. Can you just tell us what’s going on so we can leave and eat.”

Malia stares accusingly at Scott, like she does every time he calls a meeting around dinner time but provides no sustenance for his pack.

“Who is this, Peter? You can’t just bring random hookups to a pack meeting. You’re barely pack as it is.”

Peter feels Stiles stiffen beside him. No, his little spider didn’t like that at all. He wonders if it was the dismissal of their relationship, or of Peter’s status in the pack.

“Look, man. I don’t know who you are, but Peter is bad news. You should get out while you can. And like, this meeting is members only, you know?”

Stiles narrows his eyes back at the alpha. “Peter is _everything_ and I would be fucking his brains out right now if not for you assholes, so.”

Peter’s hand tightens where he has it wrapped around Stiles’ shoulder because that was. That was passionate, and more than Peter realized Stiles felt for him. He wants to take him home and cover him in jewels and suddenly feels even more resentful they’re stuck in the loft surrounded by McCall and the two remaining Argents, the banshee, and the wolf McCall bit whose name Peter hasn’t bothered to learn.

Malia lets out a huffy growl, “Peter summoned him and now they’re gross together and can we get this over with?”

Lydia finally looks up and Chris tenses. “...What do you mean, summoned?”

Stiles has his shit-disturber grin out in full force. “You know. Chalk circle, lots of runes. Sexy essential oils, dark rituals. The whole deal. My babewolf goes all out for me.”

Allison hand drops to the knife strapped to her side, “You summoned a demon?”

Peter sighs. “I really wouldn’t, if I were you, little Argent. Scott, some of us have lives. Places to be. Why are we here.”

Scott opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Chris gives a terse rundown. “There are vodyanois in the preserve. Three Flaherty hunters are dead. We need all hands on deck.”

“All hands on deck for what? Just stay out of their water. Boom. Problem solved.” Stiles shrugs and makes a ‘boom’ explosion with his hand.

Malia nods and moves to leave, and Stiles also stands, taking Peter’s hand. What’s he to do but follow?

“They killed three people!” Scott is affronted, and apparently forgetting he’s talking to Peter and what he thinks is a demon.

Stiles scrunches his nose. “Uh, three hunters who were probably hunting them, like, to death, and dicking around in their territory. Good riddance.”

Chris clenches his jaw and steps in front of them. “The Flahertys are not going to just let this go.”

Peter pastes on his most insincere smile, “Why were they even here hunting on your territory, Argent? Deal with it how you will, but honestly, Beacon Hills won’t be our problem much longer.”

At Chris’ stunned look, the three leave.

Malia is silent until they reach the diner. She’s silent through her first burger, chewing and contemplating. Peter waits her out, giving her time to put her thoughts in order.

She looks at Stiles, who pauses his attack on a plate of curly fries, then over to Peter.

“Can I come?”

Stiles beams with a mouth full of fries, while Peter nods. “Yes, you can come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Peach](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YQCxGMMNN3w).
> 
> You guys, 27% kudos ratio!!* That's insane for a chapter launch and I appreciate your faith I won't shit the bed on this because you can _never take those kudos back_. 
> 
> *Kudos ratio is absolutely a thing. My dream for AO3 is to be able to sort by kudos ratio and add permanent exclude filters.


	3. Everything goes (wow)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And before Peter can do anything, a cackling Stiles is charging forth, limbs wild and dark and sharp, leaping up and sinking into the wechuge like a violent legend brought to life. Like his own beautiful Arachne, tearing into prey with reckless abandon.

The wechuge come back. Of course they do, Beacon Hills is a ready feast open for the taking.

The Flahertys are pissed, the vodyanois refuse to let anyone near their territory except for Peter, Stiles and Malia. Stiles is some level of endearing and/or intimidating to most of the myriad creatures of the preserve, while Malia has always had a home there. The vodyanois are teaching them their favourite games of chance, while Peter tests the proverbial waters on an alliance with his fledgling cluster-pack and the Vodyan Tsar.

It’s late into the evening when they wrap up, Malia smugly beaming with a pocket full of gleaming river stones and Stiles stomping and pouting over a night full of losing rounds. Yellow sac spiders seemingly trail in the air around him, weaving threads of webbing like a crown.

Peter is fighting a smile while Stiles enumerates his (many) gambling woes, when the aranea stops in front of him, arms flailing up. He perks up when Malia does immediately after, the three of them pulling back into a defensive circle as they hear rustling from all sides in the surrounding forest. Peter grits his teeth and curses when the wechuge step out from the trees, they’ve grown their numbers since McCall sent them out of town with a sunny smile and stern lecture.

The tallest one steps forward with the jerking, fast slow movements that pull at skin stretched wrong across bone and always turn Peter’s stomach. He can smell the rancid rot and hunger even from this distance. He licks his lips and scans the group closing in. Stiles is strong, Malia fierce, but the three of them against eight wechuge? Bad odds.

He can feel Stiles’ form shifting beside him, but doesn’t turn away from the wechuge still lurching toward them. When suddenly the tall wechuge stops. When it freezes, drowned eyes widening as it rasps out: “...Djieien!”

And before Peter can do anything, a cackling Stiles is charging forth, limbs wild and dark and sharp, leaping up and sinking into the wechuge like a violent legend brought to life. Like his own beautiful Arachne, tearing into prey with reckless abandon.

Malia laughs, too, and lets out an excited growl, tackling the wechuge closest to her, while Peter sinks his claws into the chest of another on his right, never taking his eyes off of Stiles.

Stiles twists through his foes like a swallow cutting through the air. Armadeiras sink fangs into dry and vulnerable flesh, and soon the forest echos with the dying screams of the wechuge and the squelching wet noises of the giant armed spiders at work.

They get blood all over the inside of Peter’s perfect car and he doesn’t even care. His eyes glow and he breaks the speed limit getting Malia home, and then parks on an angle in the condo parking garage. He needs his spider, _now_.

Stiles chuckles breathlessly as Peter drags him to the bedroom, both of them carelessly shedding their clothes along the way. They trade kisses, alternately biting and smiling. The room is filled with gasping moans and laughter, while Stiles caresses and pushes and turns Peter aching and raw and needy. He’s never been with anyone like Stiles, who loves and fucks with the same sense of excitement he brings to the rest of his life. It’s fun and effortless and Peter has never had this before.

When the passion has cooled a little, Peter moves to the kitchen to get dinner (breakfast?) ready, while Stiles argues with renewed vigour that the vodyanois dice _must_ be fixed or at least a little crooked.

Alan Deaton is tired. What started as devotion to Beacon Hills has begun to feel like a prison. The years have chipped away at any sense of peace he had here, so when the offer comes from an old colleague to join them at the University of Edinburgh, he accepts. He quietly sells his practice to a couple of dryads, they’re solid veterinarians and eager to settle by a Nemeton, no matter what shape it’s in.

He hasn’t told the pack. He’s not technically their emissary, not technically their anything. An advisor, oft-ignored, at best. Looking up at the clock, Alan notes his last client of the day should be arriving soon. Before that happens, though, he hears the telltale bustle of his former vet tech bypassing the front desk. He sighs, bracing himself for the onslaught.

“Deaton! Deaton—Oh, there you are. We need to do something about Peter, he’s gone too far.”

Alan sighs internally, but his face is neutral. “Scott, while it’s always a pleasure to see you, I do have a patient coming shortly, I’m afraid I don’t have time right now.”

Or ever, he thinks, the internal sigh deepening when he sees Ms. Martin has come as well.

“We need you to make time, Dr. Deaton. Things are out of control and we need your help getting Peter out of commission.”

Pausing before answering, Alan’s eyes flick back to the clock on the opposite wall. “I understand your, very justified, issues with Peter, Ms. Martin. But I don’t believe that, in his current state, Peter is a threat to the general populace. My own interactions with him are limited to the sale of minor, and very common, herbs and teas.”

Scott looks at him pleadingly, “You don’t understand! He murdered the wechuge, after we already let them go!”

“Scott. We’ve already discussed this. Eliminating the wechuge is not murder, it’s a public service. They’re not creatures that can be redeemed.”

“You don’t understand! He summoned—"

They’re interrupted by the receptionist announcing his last patient’s arrival, and Alan firmly hustles them both out of the exam room.

“I’m sorry, Scott. I can’t help you other than to advise you let this go.”

Alan is tired and completely ready to leave this town.

It’s nearly noon when Peter gets up, Stiles still dead to the world beside him, cuddled tightly in a nest of most of the blankets, Peter’s shirt, and soft velvet spiders tucked around his wild bedhead like a dark, fuzzy halo.

Peter eventually leaves the bed. He hasn’t quite had his fill of watching Stiles, but he has plans for the day. He feels favourably about the slow progress he’s making with the Tsar, and they’ve likely bought some good will with the various supernatural Preserve dwellers after taking care of the wechuge. The Nemeton would’ve fed, if nothing else.

He’s sent some tentative overtures to his nephew. They’re still family. Broken and charred and torn at the seams, but family nonetheless. He tells Derek he’s leaving Beacon Hills, that Malia is coming with him. That he’s met someone.

Peter doesn’t go into a lot of details about Stiles. Both because he knows Derek hates it when he’s vague and smug about it, and because he’s pre-emptively relishing Derek’s reaction to Stiles’ exuberance. Aranea share a lot with wolves, not the least of which is their tactile nature. Stiles’ just happens to come with... additional legs and appendages.

He knows he’s grinning like an idiot, but indulges anyway because today is going to be a good day.

A quick perusal of his bookshelves and he has the volumes he wants, one on pack structure (if it has a chapter or two on mating, that’s just because Peter cares about comprehensive education) and another on the magic inherent in pack bonds. He’s accepted that Stiles will sink deeply into a research spiral when his interest is sparked, and Peter figures it may as well be to their mutual benefit.

He leaves a spread of pastries, jams, and fresh fruit on the counter with the books, a single polished stone from the vodyanois water set beside them.

Stiles texts intermittently while Peter is out, little snippets from the books he’s devouring, things he’d like to try with Peter. Very graphic things.

The occult shop that always leaves his sense dull, irritating him for hours afterward, doesn’t even phase Peter today. He finds a gold, garnet, and pearl stick pin shaped like a fly and smirks. What would a spider like better?

Luckily by the time he’s halfway through shopping for a romantic dinner, his sense of smell is slowly returning. The trip through the grocery store is haphazard at best, distracted as Peter is by the thought of Stiles wined and dined and wearing gold and garnet and not much else.

Something teases at the edge of his senses while he’s checking out. Alarm is on the tip of his tongue and he can’t tell why, doesn’t realize what that damned scent is until it’s too late. Pennyroyal and licorice root.

Peter’s head absolutely throbs, as he blindly reaches out to the other side of the bed for Stiles. He can barely blink his eyes open through the pain. God, he hasn’t felt this bad since...

His eyes shoot open, fuck the pain. There’s no Stiles here because there’s no bed. There’s nothing but the four cold, cement walls of a cell in Eichen and Peter howls and howls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Everything goes (wow)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93yNWmRBkKw&list=OLAK5uy_npurpv7D_99VnGrxeT-RdIHjHP1SJ8ijg&index=11).
> 
> The pin is [real and amazing](https://www.1stdibs.com/jewelry/brooches/brooches/14-carat-yellow-gold-grenades-pearls-russia-fly-stickpin/id-j_10974842/).


	4. Falling apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he can focus, he focuses solely on Stiles. The part of him that’s lost everything more than once bristles at that, with attachment comes a level of trust and dependence that Peter both craves and abhors. But Stiles is loyal and worth it. Or was.

Stiles is watching reruns of _Sewing with Nancy_ on Peter’s flat screen when he begins to feel uneasy, a prickling stab of ice along the length of his spine. He drops his needles and looks down at trembling hands, orb-weavers curling up tight around the strands of yarn. A sudden wave of panic, then utter hopelessness, washes through him, and he gasps shaky, fast breaths as he realizes the feelings _aren’t his_. The ache in the back of his neck, the unfamiliar-familiar hollow in his chest, the burning in his lungs, none of it belongs to Stiles.

The last time he felt this kind of despair, his cluster was left shattered and he spent long decades cold and alone. Stiles will be damned if he’s going to let it happen again.

Cracking his knuckles and swarming out across the room, he considers his options, then grabs his phone. He’s going to need help to find his shiny babewolf.

It’s difficult to mark time passing in the cell, when it feels like everything is falling apart. There are no windows, the lights never go out, and whatever they’re pumping through the vents at random intervals is worse than being held underwater. Breathing shallowly doesn’t help, just deepens the burn inside. When he can focus, he focuses solely on Stiles. The part of him that’s lost everything more than once bristles at that, with attachment comes a level of trust and dependence that Peter both craves and abhors. But Stiles is loyal and worth it. Or was.

What will happen to his sweet little spider when he realizes Peter isn’t coming back? Even through the haze of poison, he feels the urge to thrash and snarl at the thought of the Argents or McCall’s pack getting their filthy, bumbling hands on his aranea.

The air grows thick again and as Peter drifts, he wonders idly if Jordan will notice or care when he doesn’t text him about the game.

Jordan is tensely deliberating between Philly cheese or Mexicali burritos, ignoring the unnecessarily judgmental _tut tut_ from Mrs. Crenshaw as she rolls her cart down the frozen food aisle, casting a gaze over his meal options and (lightly) stained sweatpants. He sighs, because bachelor chow is bachelor chow, and he’s in for a sad, solo dinner regardless. Putting both packages back, he considers just seeing if Peter and Stiles are free. Sure, Stiles is a little bit of an odd guy, but Peter has really stepped up his breakfast-for-dinner game since he came into the picture.

His phone buzzes. And buzzes again, and again. He scrolls up to see a barrage of messages:

 _»_ _Jprdan peter is in trouble_

_» I need your help! @ peters place_

_» Bring your car_

_» And your gun maybe we can get some fries on the way_

“Huh.” Jordan shakes his head and hustles out of the store, weaving around an affronted Mrs. Crenshaw. He better get some waffles out of this.

Peter comes out of his daze, feeling not quite alert, but at least aware of his surroundings. The harsh light above him flickers out for a few seconds, and he sighs at the momentary reprieve from the constant buzz. Maybe someone will bring the wretched building down upon them. When the light comes back on, he blinks at the dark spot hovering above his scrubs. If his brain weren’t so fucking cloudy, he knows he could parse this better. The dark spot lowers in starts and jerks, and Peter realizes it’s attached to a delicate strand of silk.

 _Domestic house spider_ , supplies 9-year-old Cora’s voice from some rusty corner of his mind.

It takes Malia three days of tracking as a coyote to find Peter. She lets Jordan do things the human way, that means nothing to her. Stiles swarms across the preserve, looking for any trace of his mate. By the second day, they’re all tense. Jordan found Peter’s car quickly, but nothing else. Stiles sometimes stays human, but with eight eyes instead of two, loxosceles trailing frantically over the shimmering tattoo on his neck. He mutters about waiting too long to claim Peter fully, little fangs poking out of his mouth, venom dripping and spilling like an angry snake.

Whoever took Peter was smart enough to cover their scent, but Malia spent eight years hunting and surviving. And she knows Eichen. As soon as they figure it out, Jordan tries to contact Deaton, but finds his phone number is out of service. When he stops by the clinic, there’s a truck out front and a happy, young couple let him know they’ve taken over the practice, Deaton having left the country.

Malia and Stiles snap their jaws at Jordan when he tells them they need a plan, _something_ , even if it’s just a getaway after storming the building. Malia shifts back, reluctantly agreeing to stay with him while Stiles uses stealth and violence to get Peter out. She trusts Stiles more than she trusts, well, anyone. He’s simple like she is, and he’s so terrible at dice, she always wins. A good packmate.

Jordan parks his beat up truck a mile or so out from the edge of Eichen’s property line. He glances at Malia every now and then, looking distinctly uncomfortable with her wide, feral smile. Then he shrugs and digs into the burgers they stopped for on the way over. He’s had weirder friends over the years.

The domestic house spider finally lands softly onto Peter’s hand and promptly bites him. Much harder than it should be able to, and he curses, gritting his teeth. His mind clears instantly, his ears pop, and he’s free of crushing pain in his chest. He shakes his head and blinks, the clarity almost jarring.

He’s also aware of the screams echoing down the hallway, and scrambles to his feet, pressing his ear against the heavy door. Until the metal starts to buckle, and he jumps back as it crumples like foil into a ball that shoots into the wall behind him.

The light from his cell pours out into the slick and inky black, as the shouting sounds of terror rise and fall. They’re hard to make out; wet, crunching noises, the odd gunshot. He squints into the darkness, and realizes it’s moving. Writhing and swaying and Peter grins wider and wider. He preens, nearly struts out, stepping over remnants of what once was an orderly. He spares a glance, faintly remembers the man from his last stay at Eichen. Trigger happy with the taser, he won’t be missed.

When he looks up, eight beautiful eyes stare back at him this time, from the skittering horde.

“Hello, darling. What a sight you are.”

A hand emerges, and Peter takes it in his, letting the diving bells inspect every inch of free skin. Lets Stiles pull him in and surround him, lift him up right out of this hell.

He’s not, it’s not that he’s startled to see Malia and Jordan there. He isn’t surprised they noticed him missing, that they cared. It’s not that at all. He doesn’t look stunned when Malia throws herself at him in a tight hug/scenting. He doesn’t swallow hard or feel at all confused when Jordan claps a hand on his shoulder and helps him into the backseat of the truck. It’s just that he’s obviously disoriented from his short and involuntary stay at Eichen. That’s to be expected.

The ride back to his condo is quiet, with Malia grinning happily beside Jordan in the front, and Stiles worriedly feeding him an assortment of (Stiles’ favourite) greasy food in the back.

Stiles ushers Malia and Jordan onto the sofa in the living room, while dragging Peter to the bedroom, barely waiting until the door is shut to get him out of the starchy scrubs. The more flesh uncovered, the more the diving bells skim across, looking for any signs of distress.

They cling to his fingers and legs while Stiles washes away captivity from Peter’s body. They stand in the shower and Peter watches Stiles as he trails soap with kisses across wet skin.

He finally looks up, two gleaming, beautiful eyes looking into Peter’s own.

“Will you let me claim you? My cluster-mate, will you be only mine? Live a life beside me?”

And Peter inhales sharply, remembering Stiles’ comment about ‘fixing’ his short, human lifespan. He barely finishes nodding, a whispered “yes,” before Stiles has his teeth at Peter’s throat.

When they rejoin Malia and Jordan, Peter is smiling broadly. Malia makes a faintly disgusted face after sniffing the air, and noticing Peter’s slightly stiff gait. Stiles is positively glowing. The lines of his tattoo flaring red, he is actually aglow.

Jordan looks a little embarrassed, but clears his throat and asks his question anyway, “Uh, I’m glad you’re feeling better already. It’s not like we can press charges since we... brought down most of Eichen, but do you know who did this?”

“Oh yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Falling apart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AKDHCbq7ECU).
> 
> Apropos of nothing, this [tiny internet drama](https://twitter.com/emilynussbaum/status/1344095638099787776) made me laugh a lot because I love stupid, petty humour.


	5. To belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles raises his eyebrows as they walk up to the door, pointing to the rune work along the wood frame. While it’s a technically flawless translation and application... it’s also an incorrect one. Although, if you’re trying to keep bluecaps out of your cellar, these would do it.

While the vodyanois taught them, laughingly rolling dice and tossing runes, the Vodyan Tsar would share all their best stories with Stiles and Malia. Rivers and lakes all over the world, where their people thrived, transient and restless, all.

“Imagine being trapped in one little parcel of land, never seeing the sun rise over any other water. Can you think of anything worse, little странники?”

“I don’t understand why they did this, we’re leaving. Even if they hate Peter, we’d be gone anyway. Why go to so much trouble?”

Malia frowns and talks around half-chewed jerky while they go over everything that happened, from the moment Peter was taken. Jordan cringes away from her, only to find a six-eyed Stiles on his other side. He sighs and leans back into the sofa, shooting a careful look at Peter.

“Where _are_ you guys going? You never actually said.”

Peter’s mouth twitches up, “Nevada. Derek and Cora have settled there. My dear niece and nephew have started a bail bond agency with a mercenary friend of mine. Making use of their copious social skills, I’m sure.”

Half a dozen eyes blink at Jordan.

“What do you mean, ‘you guys’? You’re part of this cluster-pack too, Jordan. This town sucks. The vodyanois will be leaving soon, and we’re the only other cool people here. What’s there to stay for? You belong with us.”

And, damn. Stiles isn’t wrong. What’s he got here? Forty thousand a year, a bachelor apartment, and a position on the outer edges of a fractured pack. The only ones helping him learn more about being a hellhound are Peter and Deaton, and from the short letter he received from the druid via the new vets, that ship has sailed. He hopes the guy is happy wherever he ended up, even if he was kind of a drag.

“Well that’s, I mean, yeah. Okay. I’m in.”

He lets out a little ‘oof’ when Stiles tackles him in a hug, and Malia punches him hard on the shoulder and offers up her jerky bag.

Which would be more enticing if there weren’t a red velvet spider wiggling its way inside.

“From what you’ve said about how they drugged you, we know Allison and Lydia are involved. But what about the rest? You think Chris and Scott were in on this?”

“Does it matter?” Stiles’ dark eyes glitter as he continues to scan the book in his lap. The ink on the page bleeds into his hand and back again, crashing between like waves.

“...I’m not a part of their pack, and I won’t be a cop for much longer, but I’m still not comfortable with leaving a trail of dead bodies behind us.”

Stiles laughs and closes the book, “Psh. Like I’d just let them _die_ , that’s over in a snap.”

Jordan doesn’t exactly find that reassuring, but it’s enough. He needs to start packing, and from the hungry look Peter is throwing Stiles’ way, he definitely doesn’t want to be in the same room with them much longer.

It’s almost insulting, the joint attempt from McCall’s shambles of a pack and the Argents.

While Jordan deals with the tedious mundanities of preparing to move, the rest of the cluster-pack says their goodbyes in the preserve. Peter finally has an accord with the vodyanois, it turns out the Vodyan Tsar has a soft spot for “young love’s blush.” Which translates to everyone leering at the bite displayed prominently on Peter’s neck as Stiles preens beside him.

Their arrangement means access to a global flow of information, an unparalleled treasure of supernatural gossip. The Tsar’s sunken blue eyes sparkle, as weathered lips part in an amused smile.

“I believe your hunters and the whelp are waiting at your old homestead for you and your, ah,” he rasps a river-wet laugh, “little devil.”

If the peacock spiders dancing along the edge of Stiles’ collarbone could, they’d probably be laughing, too.

With parting gifts of dice for Malia, and a tome on the best magics to drown your enemies for Stiles, the vodyanois sink back down into the murky water.

Malia hands her dice to Peter and shifts to her coyote skin, stalking around the edge of the property as they approach the ruins of the Hale house.

Hiding scents and heartbeats may have worked while Peter’s senses were dulled, but now that he’s sharp, he can tell there are four or five people inside the building. That accounts for the Argents, Scott, Lydia and possibly... Sam? He never did bother to learn that beta’s name.

Stiles raises his eyebrows as they walk up to the door, pointing to the rune work along the wood frame. While it’s a technically flawless translation and application... it’s also an incorrect one. Although, if you’re trying to keep bluecaps out of your cellar, these would do it.

Peter rolls his eyes and frowns before opening the door.

...Leslie? No, that doesn’t seem right, either.

They step through and immediately Lydia and Chris begin to chant. Allison and Scott flank them, knives and claws out, respectively. Little mystery beta is nowhere to be found. Lucky him. Stiles looks down and toes at the chalk markings on the floor, while Peter squints at the book in Chris’ hand. Hm, New Testament. Nothing like a classic.

The chant winds down and Lydia and Allison share a look.

“I take it you were expecting more impressive results. Things really aren’t going your way, lately.” Peter flicks his claws out, inspecting them while keeping an eye on the hand Argent has reaching back for his gun.

“Again, I really wouldn’t, Argent, if I were you.”

Chris jerks back as if stung, and back again when he looks down at the three brown recluse clinging to the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

“What the—”

He tries to shake them off, only to be interrupted by a scream from Allison, and a yelp from Scott. Inky black threaded through with glinting ruby red has a hold of the both of them, and Lydia is trying not to move, letting out a strangled noise as a loxosceles tangles its legs in her hair, trailing down the side of her face.

“You’re not a demon.”

Stiles grins wide, teeth sharp points.

“No, hunter, I’m not a demon. Um, C- for effort?” The brown recluse spiders bite, and the four of them drop to the ground.

Peter can’t help leaning over Scott to gloat. “You really should have let me be. You just never learn, do you?”

“I’m not letting you become an alpha, again, Peter! Beacon Hills is _mine_.”

The smile that Peter lets slowly grow is cruel. Lydia and Chris are smart enough to see it, but Scott continues to rage. “Don’t worry, Scott. Beacon Hills _is_ yours. It’ll be yours until you die here.”

He can see the moment it registers. He’s felt Stiles weaving the curse since they stepped beyond the runes. The work is so delicate and insidious, it steals his breath away. Stiles laughed at him once, calling his magic “dabbling.” It’s so much more than that.

This pack claims the territory like children spoiling over a toy, only to neglect it a moment later. The Argents absolve themselves over and over of responsibility for other hunters in their borders. Not anymore, though. Now they’re tied to the land. As the last twisting knot tightens into place, as Stiles makes the magic immutable, they’re trapped here.

They can never, ever leave Beacon Hills again. Can’t stray a step out of the constrictive perimeter Stiles has drawn.

“What have you done...?” Lydia’s voice is a whisper.

Stiles lets go of his form before he answers, filling the edges of the room, then pulling back to surround Peter.

“This is what you get for coming after my cluster-mate. My babewolf goes all out for me, I go all out right back.”

If a twisting mass of spiders and shadows can flounce, then it does as Stiles sweeps Peter out of the house.

Malia trots up to them, tongue lolling, and the three make their way back to Peter’s car.

Jordan’s phone blows up with messages as he packs the last of his boxes into the SUV Peter lent him. He leaves it on the table in the bachelor apartment without reading any of them.

It’s not a long drive, from Beacon Hills to Fernley, Nevada, where Derek and Cora have set up shop. Peter sends them the barest of details around arrival times, while also making sure to pepper conversation with Stiles about how his nephew is practically _touch-starved_.

It’s worth it for the incredibly pained, constipated look on Derek’s face when Stiles hugs him like a koala the moment they’re introduced.

Jordan stumbles through an introduction to Peter’s mercenary friend, Braeden, while Malia marches in and immediately starts complaining about her ever-present hunger. Derek’s utter exasperation and the wonder in Cora’s eyes at the yellow sac spiders weaving their way through Stiles’ hair is priceless.

Stiles reaches a hand out to Peter, silver spider cuff shining on his wrist. It was supposed to go like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [To belong](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uR_sZx0lpck).
> 
> I swear I did not intend to write about leaving Beacon Hills this time. But it happened! They left anyway! So far I've sent them to: Tahoe National Forest, Portland, the imaginary Perpetual, South River, and now Fernley. It may as well become a thing. Maybe they'll head up to Napanee. 
> 
> странники = Wanderers
> 
> [Life after](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sqHSSR8cHv0):
> 
> Malia and Jordan both stay in Fernley. Malia muscles her way into Cora and Derek's space, meets a kitsune named Kira, and sets about wooing her with a disastrous combination of advice from Stiles, Cora, and Peter. Shockingly, gifts of:
> 
> 1\. Raw-cut gems  
> 2\. Butchered cuts of venison  
> 3\. and Peter's favourite whisky
> 
> Do not do the trick. Eventually Jordan tells her she should just ask Kira out for dinner at the diner they both like, which _does_ work, and also inspires Jordan to finally take the plunge and ask out Braeden. 
> 
> Malia loves her job as a blackjack dealer, striking terror into the hearts of gamblers everywhere. Jordan's hellhound instincts make him an incredibly adept bail bondsman. It might be weird to woo by tracking down errant bond breakers, but Jordan's the kind of guy to use all the tools at his disposal.
> 
> Stiles and Peter build a beautiful home in Eureka, at the base of the mountains. It's all harsh angles and tall windows, the sun sparkling off of all of Stiles' most beloved shiny things. They work as a pair of supernatural fixers (or as Stiles puts it, _very classy hitmen_ ). Years pass and their family slowly grows. Stiles knits baby blankets like it's going out of style. They watch as Malia and Kira adopt, as Braeden and Jordan finally settle down. They watch over the children, they watch as Derek's beard grows greyer and Stiles walks out of the shadows one day and holds his hand as he passes. Peter keeps track of all his great-nieces and -nephews, until so much time has passed it's impossible to tell anymore.
> 
> He lives a life beside his aranea, always, as the world around them turns to dust.


End file.
